“I’ll be careful,” promised Slim.
The Flying Arrow rider wakened the stableman and inquired the way to the Box B.
“It’s a nine mile trip, but the trail’s clear. You’ll strike it just across the creek.”
Slim’s low whistle brought Lightning out of the corral and he saddled and bridled the mare with expert hands. He slipped his rifle into the scabbard on the saddle and swung silently into the stirrups.
Dirty Water appeared asleep with only the dim light in the hotel and the glow from the windows of Doc Baldridge’s trying to penetrate the blackness of the night. It was the hour just before the dawn when Slim set out for the Box B.
Chapter Twelve
War Declared
Dawn had broken over the crests of the Cajons and smoke was curling above the cookhouse when Slim rode down on the Box B. The ranch buildings were set almost in the shadows of the Three Soldiers, the towering peaks looming above the huddled structures at their feet.
The foothills rose some miles behind the ranch, but the buildings themselves were in a broad, rich valley. A fringe of cottonwoods growing rank along a creek protected the layout from the winter winds which swept down from the north.
The ranch house, a rambling frame structure, had once been painted gray, but wind and rain had worn this to a sickly hue. The other buildings, including the bunkhouse, the cookhouse, and the blacksmith shop, were unpainted, their boards warped and burned by the sun.
A large corral was just below the buildings with a score of horses inside. Beyond was a rich meadow through which the creek wandered, and the grass there was thick and green. Stacks of hay, cut for winter use, were ranged along one side. It was an ideal layout and Slim could understand the pride of Adam Marks in the Box B and its rich, rolling miles of range land. He could understand, with the spirit of a true cowman, how a man would fight to the end to retain his possessions in this last stand of the cattle frontier.